


Go Home (And Get Clean)

by RedRidingHood24



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Clubbing, Dancing, F/M, Gen, Underage Drinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-19
Updated: 2015-07-19
Packaged: 2018-04-10 01:26:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,974
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4371833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RedRidingHood24/pseuds/RedRidingHood24
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fic based on A World Alone by Lorde. Stydia goes to a club (alone to get away from everyone and everything) and Lydia gets drunk and confesses how she feels about everything. Not only her feelings for Stiles, but how Scott is still recovering from Allison’s death, how Malia isn’t that loyal to Lydia, etc. This is a prompt I filled for Stydia-Fanfiction on Tumblr.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Go Home (And Get Clean)

**Author's Note:**

> Author’s Note: Cayendo by Deorro is the song they are dancing to in the middle.

Lydia’s dressed in black. Deep deep black that lets nothing in and nothing out. The seams of the top are sewn tight, faux leather making up the sides and a skirt to match. She looks and even feels perfect. Stiles will be there any minute. They’d made plans that were not very specific, but they’d work themselves out as the night goes on. Lydia was going to totally and full let go. Her, being the typical designated driver, switched places with the usually most tipsy Stiles.

 

She’s pulling on platforms and waltzing out the door. Like the professional she is, she clicks down the driveway with no twisted ankles. Not even a pop sound of a heel getting caught on the pavement. He doesn’t say the ever popular “you look really good,” because he knows she knows.

 

“Are you sure this place is okay?” She asks, a little less confident than earlier.

 

“I’m positive. Trust me, with a Sheriff for a father, I will take every sensible precaution before doing anything potentially illegal. They don’t card.” Lydia sits back in her seat and sighs when the radio goes on. Millions of “I got you babe” ‘s comes from Stiles when he sings out of tune. Lydia wonders how long it took Stiles to put his outfit together. Every day it’s a different colored laid shirt and tonight he chose purple. They matched in the black bottoms and black shoes. “Let me turn on the heat,” Stiles twists the knob located by a symbol of a vent when Lydia rubs her thighs with her hands, trying to raise her temperature.

 

“Thanks,” she breathes. She looks at him, focuses on the tip of his nose, the sharpness of his jawline; and she feels grown up. She’s going clubbing. It’s only something horny teenage boys and gold diggers do, she thought. But now its something she does too. She can own this. They pull into the parking lot lit only by headlights and the half-moon. Don’t say it, she thinks. Please don’t say it. But he does.

 

“Time to par-tay!” Stiles hops out of the jeep, landing on wiggly feet. Lydia smooths her skirt along the tops of her legs and reaches back to pull the hem forward to make sure her butt isn’t sticking out. They can feel the music already. It’s in their feet, their hands on the vehicles; the vibrations traveling and making a home in the metal. Lydia knew Stiles would stick around her tonight. She was fine with that. She’d made a point to him to not let Scott or anyone else know. She just wanted a night away. She couldn’t go alone, though. So she brought the closest comfort, the one person that could use a little letting go, too. He puts his hands in his pockets and bobs his head along with the beat while they stand in line. The bouncer at the front door puts his hand up to certain people; intoxicated and nasty ones to be exact. Good, Lydia thinks, no need for unkempt drunks tonight.

 

It’d been months since Allison’s death. Scott had Kira, but he still had that whole in his chest that Lydia felt too. It was the way she fell to the ground… Stiles was the only other one in the group that didn’t see it happen. Stiles held her hand right then and there when he woke up in the tunnels of Oak Creek. When she told him, she was sobbing…he helped her breathe.

 

They make it to the bouncer. Lydia notices him notice her. A handsome man in his mid-thirties; not out of her range. Her type, perhaps. She thought of men in their thirties to be in their prime. It was the stubble they’re prone to, she figured. But there was that one time; the one time when Stiles came to school during second period after taking a bit of a high dose of a sleep aid and hadn’t shaved because he’d be “even later.” The way his hand brushed over his scruffy chin and into his messy bed hair…

 

The bouncer gives a signal to her, telling her to go in. She doesn’t move if Stiles doesn’t move. She knows the guard wouldn’t let him in if he weren’t with her, not because he wasn’t up to par with looks, because he was, but because of the silly way he’s dancing rocking back and forth on his feet. Lydia grabs Stiles’ hand and pulls him behind her. Stiles gives the bouncer a look like “ha!” and squeezes Lydia’s hand a little tighter. He was right, they don’t card. He’d only told her that so she shouldn’t cancel on him. He’d planned on noticing that guards asking for ID and then sweeping Lydia off her feet and into a pizza place where they’d then fall in love, get married and have two and a half kids.

 

They don’t have to look to know that heads are turning. The women are staring at Stiles, at his lean but solid figure. And some are even looking at Lydia with either jealousy or attraction. Stiles goes with it, walking with more confidence, moving his body with Lydia’s to weave through the people, his normally goofy expression exchanged for a rough and seductive one.

 

Of course, mid-song, his clumsy swagger returns along with the head bobbing and lip-biting. Lydia had rejected the alcohol at first, being that she’d only ever had champagne at fancy weddings and a stolen glass of her mother’s expensive wine, but when Stiles offered to buy her a pretty cocktail, she said yes. He hadn’t pressured her one bit, and Lydia appreciated it, but she thought about it and if she was going to do what she set out to do, she might as well enjoy a girly drink with someone she trusts.

 

Just the first sip warms her all over. She gets happy with the rest. Stiles avoids any alcohol after a taste of Lydia’s pink drink so he can drive them home. He’d made a promise. Stiles follows her around, protecting her from other men and girls who’ve had too much to drink and want to pull hair. A song with a hard beat pushes the crowd together, a Spanish speaking woman singing on the track .They don’t dance as much as vibrate with the music; their bodies getting closer, faces in necks, hands on backs. Lydia’s shoulders move up against him, back and forth, side to side. “Stiles,” she laughs. He doesn’t hear that sound often. He keeps his eyes closed, moving back and forth with Lydia. He won’t open them, he won’t stop the fuzzy feeling in his head, in his chest.

 

“Hmm?” He asks in her neck. The last time he was this close was at the winter formal; the dance he knew Allison had told her to take him to. But he didn’t complain. Her neck was a nice place for his nose. It smelled the strongest of her perfume that reminded him a little of a concert. With hints of alcohol, other scents, and pheromones pheromones pheromones.

 

“I feel so…” He hears her give a pleasant laugh again.

 

“I know,” he smiles. There’s no telling where the music is actually coming from. The strobe lights and fog block any sign of a live DJ but they don’t bother checking for one. Who really comes to see the DJ anyway, Stiles thinks.

 

He doesn’t keep track of how many drinks Lydia has. He wants to tell her she’s had enough, but he doesn’t want to interfere with her night; he just wants to participate in it. After a few songs, she migrates to other guys, dancing with them and Stiles tries not to mind until he catches a remark about a “slutty red-head,” and “probably guy number 69,” so he pulls her close, moving her out of the way of the faceless people. They’re dancing along now, in their own world. He doesn’t pay attention to whatever song is playing but he slows her down. It’s almost a silence that happens. It brings her into his arms, causing a soft breath to come out of her. “I like this.” She doesn’t slur; it comes out perfectly. “I like you.” Lydia looks up at him, slowly swaying with him to the beat. “You make me feel good.” Her brain is fuzzy but the images of Stiles are clear. She’s feeling like she’s in a dream, talking to him without actually saying it…or so she thinks.

 

“I…I do?”

 

“Mhm…” She nods, running her finger along his jawline. “You made me feel better after…after Ali,” she coughs but it sounds a little more like a sob. “After Allison died.” She corrects herself. She only ever called her Ali in her journals or when she visited her room or her grave. To Ali, from Lydi, it said on the birthday card she left on the flowers that lie beside the stone that read “nous protegeons ceux qui neuvent pas se proteger eux-memes.” Stiles feels Lydia grip his arm.

 

“Lets sit down.” He pulls away unwillingly and directs her to a wall lined with blue cushioned booth seats. He doesn’t know if he should stop her from talking but…what if it has to do with him? He hesitates, but he tilts her face up to his. Her eyes are a little red and her lipstick came off from all the cups she’s drank out of, but she’s still beautiful. “I mean, I try to talk to Scott about her but I don’t want to make him sad. Sometimes he still sneaks in her room.” Lydia looks down at her legs. “Malia doesn’t get it…she thinks that he should be happy with Kira and stop thinking about…and she doesn’t even like me…” Lydia trails off and what she says mixes together but not one tear is shed. “I don’t…I don’t want Scott to trust her. Malia’s not…I can’t trust her.” She looks through him.

 

He prevents the cataclysm. He takes her hand, listens to her talk about her father and his mistress, her mother not talking about it, and helps her into the front seat of the jeep. The smell of him covers her when she puts on his hoodie. The drive relaxes her but she doesn’t dare look out the window for fear she’ll get sick. It all rolls together for her: the being carried in, the blankets tucking around her, but he knows all of it. He feels her body move underneath the silk night gown he puts her in, smells her shampoo when she leans her head against his chest. Her parents aren’t home and this is good, he thinks, they wouldn’t like him digging in their fridge. Stiles puts together a bowl of granola and yogurt for her along with a room temperature glass of water.

 

Lydia picks at it but eventually it’s all gone, and trust him, he made sure she didn’t sip the water too fast. When the clock’s hands finally reach three a.m, she’s laying down. “Are you sure you’ll be alright? Because I’ll stay…” He asks. Lydia puts a hand on his arm, half asleep.

 

“Stiles, I’m fine. Thank you for…keeping me safe.” She’s sobered up a little. Her eyes close, breathing becoming deeper. He twitches with the need to kiss her bitten lips. But he settles for a “good night” and a rub on her shoulder. He’ll put this night away and keep it for himself. Because after all, this was all for her, and he’d do anything. God he’d do anything. Even clean up the mess of a night that could’ve ended differently. But by morning, it’ll all be gone, she’ll keep a poker face, and he'll keep her secrets.


End file.
